Hard Times in the Big Easy
by camlann
Summary: Set in my Prologue 'verse.  Angst and arguing ensue when the Winchesters arrive in New Orleans.  Rated for language.
1. Drinks, Drugs, and Disputes

Disclaimer: I only own that which I came up with. Sadly, Sam and Dean Winchester aren't included. Neither is John. :(

A/N: So this idea has been lurking since July, when I went to New Orleans with one of my best friends. Let me just say that New Orleans is awesome, and there's so much fodder for fanfic that I almost didn't know where to begin. This started as a one-shot…then it turned into a two-shot…and now it's a three-shot with the potential for more if I decide to revisit it in the future. This is part of the reason why I've been so delayed on updating my main fic, although RL also played a major role in that. I'm sorry for the long wait, regardless. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter 1: Drinks, Drugs, and Disputes

_Maybe flying wasn't such a great idea,_ John decided, using one arm to propel Dean through the airport by the elbow while Braden hung limply in the other arm, the little boy having long since succumbed to Dramamine's sway. Braden hadn't put up much of a fuss—he'd never flown before, but having witnessed his reaction to traveling by car, John had decided not to take any chances, dosing him up before they'd left for the airport. Of the other three, Sam was the only one taking it all in stride, following along behind John with relative ease.

_Of course, that could just be because I told him I'd think about letting him help out on this hunt…shouldn't fool myself into thinking it's for my benefit or anything. _

Aubrey, whose hand was firmly nestled within Sam's, much to the fifteen-year-old's embarrassment, was lagging behind as much as Sam's reach would allow, sniffling and upset at having to leave that pain-in-the-ass hamster behind with one of John's buddies.

Davis had raised an eyebrow at John's request to keep the damn thing, but had acquiesced, promising the nine-year-old that he'd keep it safe, much to Dean's disappointment. But of course, Aubrey wasn't going to let it be that easy. She'd whined and cried ever since they left, and John could feel the edges of his temper beginning to fray.

Dean, as expected, had balked at the idea of flying from the start, and only the nineteen-year-old's dislike for being left behind was enough to motivate him to come along. But John couldn't be sure he still wouldn't bolt, hence his hand on Dean's elbow.

John wasn't particularly fond of flying, either, preferring to drive so that his weapons were close at hand and their vehicles were nearby in case they needed to make a quick getaway. But when Ellen had passed on word of what was looking like a demon in New Orleans, he hadn't wanted to turn it down. And since they'd been in Oregon at the time, well…flying it was.

So John had loaded up his children and the necessary weapons and headed to the airport, not sure whether he should be alarmed by what they'd allow through checked luggage or just damn grateful.

"Dad, you know, we could still make it if we took turns and drove through the night," Dean offered as John pushed him towards their terminal.

"No, Dean," he told him with a patience he didn't feel.

"Well, maybe _you_ could fly, and the rest of us could drive down and meet you there," Dean suggested, gracing John with his biggest smile.

"Dean, if this thing really is a demon, we don't have the luxury of wasting time. Hell, even if it's not a demon, it's escalating. It's killing almost every night now. Besides that, I need you there, and I don't have time to wait on you to drive down. So we're flying. _All of us_," he said, maneuvering Dean into a chair before taking one himself. Settling Braden more comfortably against him, he pulled his journal out of his duffel, flipping through the pages until he got to his copy of the _Rituale Romanum_.

_Need to brush up on it, just in case. Need to bless some water when we land, too. Or find a church. Whatever works. _

He thought about passing the journal off to Dean, so he could read over John's information on demons, but one glance at his oldest son had him changing his mind.

Beside him, Dean was tapping the arm of the chair nervously, his leg bouncing up and down. His ADHD exacerbated by nerves, Dean took out the _Guns 'N Ammo_ magazine that John had bought for him, opening it only to set it aside a few moments later, his eyes anxiously watching the planes through the terminal windows.

_Shit. We haven't even gotten on the damn plane yet and the boy's a nervous wreck. That's not gonna work._

"Listen," he said lowly, waiting for Dean to lean closer before continuing, "Do you want something to calm you down?"

"What, like a drink?" Dean asked, his face brightening at the prospect of alcohol.

"Not what I had in mind, son," John replied, rolling his eyes. "I let you drink from time to time—and no, I don't wanna hear about what you get up to when you're out—but I'm not gonna risk buying you a drink in public like this. And I'm not sure how well that fake ID you think I don't know about will hold up to daytime scrutiny. I can't afford to have you nailed for underage drinking."

"Well, if you're not gonna buy me a drink, then what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about drugging your ass," John told him bluntly. "So what do you think? Wanna give it a try?"

"Nah, Dad, you know that shit fucks me up—I don't wanna be knocked on my ass like that."

_Damn_.

"You gonna be able to get on the plane without freaking out on me, then?"

"Yessir."

_Uh-huh. Right._

Sure enough, by the time they'd boarded the plane, Dean was a jittery bundle of nerves, and John wasn't altogether certain that the boy was gonna make it. He'd placed Dean in the window seat, preferring to box his oldest in by taking the middle seat for himself.

He placed Braden in the aisle seat, the little boy hardly moving as John buckled the seatbelt around him before settling into his own seat. Sam and Aubrey were sitting across the aisle from them, Sam in the aisle seat while Aubrey sat next to him.

"Dad, I don't want the window seat," Dean told him, a hint of panic leaking into his voice. "Why can't I sit with Sammy?"

_Because I can't trust you not to bolt if I don't keep you hemmed in,_ John thought, but he didn't say that.

"Because I want you _there_," he told him instead. "Now put your seatbelt on and settle."

He turned to check on Aubrey and Sam, pleased to see that Sam had managed to distract Aubrey with the Barbie shit John had bought her. Sam had convinced John that the stupid doll accessories were a necessity and damn if he hadn't been right. All Sam had had to do was pull the Ziploc of clothes and shoes out of Aubrey's backpack and hand them to her, and she settled back with only a slight sniffle. Sam was currently immersed in a book he'd talked John into buying for him at the airport gift shop, too caught up in the story to notice that Aubrey was using his lap to hold her various Barbie doodads.

The silence from both of them was a blessed relief, and John spared a moment to be grateful for airport gift shops, even if they were overpriced as hell.

_Peace and quiet, and all I had to do was buy a damn book and some doll shit. Who knew? Now if only Dean could be so easily pacified._

"Dad? Can you _please_ buy me a drink?" Dean hissed, obviously not referring to a soft drink, and John fought back a sigh as he turned to see his oldest staring back at him with a pleading expression.

"No, Dean."

"C'mon, please! No one would have to know, and if anyone came by, we'd just pretend it was yours!"

"_No_. Don't ask again."

"Fuck."

"Watch it," John warned, casting a stern look at him. Dean knew well enough that profanity in polite company wasn't tolerated, and the general public certainly qualified. Dean fell silent, but John knew from years of experience that the matter was likely far from over.

Unfortunately, just as John had feared, Dean's anxiety only got worse, and by the time the plane began to taxi down the runway, Dean was quietly hyperventilating next to him.

_Shit._

"Hey, hey, easy," he murmured, gently pushing Dean's head down between his knees. "Just breathe, son—we'll level out in a minute."

They reached flying altitude after a tense ten minutes, but Dean wasn't any closer to calming down. Instead, his back was heaving under John's hand as he gasped for air. And of course, as Winchester luck would have it, they hit turbulence ten minutes into the flight, causing Dean's panic to skyrocket. Dean groaned, and John worried for a moment that the nineteen-year-old was about to hurl.

"It's alright, Dean—just some turbulence. It's okay."

"Fucking…turbulence…not…ok," Dean gasped.

"Sir? Is everything alright?"

John looked up to see a concerned flight attendant standing next to them.

"My boy's a nervous flyer."

"More like a terrified flyer," Sam snorted, and Dean turned his head to level a murderous look at his younger brother.

_Sort of loses some of its effectiveness when you look like you're about to hurl, son._

"Sam, read your book and leave your brother alone," John ordered, casting a look of his own at Sam before turning back to Dean, who was doing his best to slow his breathing.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" the flight attendant asked.

"Uh, if you could bring him a glass of water, that'd be great."

"Is that all?"

"Yeah, I'll take care of the rest," he assured her.

"Dad…'m not…thirsty," Dean gasped, his hand latching onto John's knee as he shook his head.

"Maybe not, but you're gonna take something to calm you down," John told him as the flight attendant left to get Dean's water.

"No, I'll…be…fine," Dean argued, still trying to catch his breath.

"What kind of a father would I be if I let you suffer like this?" John asked, the question a rhetorical one that Dean decided to answer.

"An…understanding…one. I don't wanna… take anything…fucks with my head, Dad."

"You misunderstand me, son—this isn't a discussion, and I'm not gonna argue with you."

"Dad—"

"I said I'm not gonna argue with you, and I thought I was pretty clear about it. You're taking what I give you, understand?"

"Yessir," Dean mumbled, visibly trying to get control of himself, as if doing so might change his father's mind in the next minute and a half.

_Not likely, _John thought. Even if Dean managed somehow to calm down, which wasn't fucking likely, he'd still be as hyperactive as usual—not something John wanted to deal with on a plane. Fishing Valium out of his small carry-on, he waited for the flight attendant to bring Dean's water before handing the pill to his oldest. Dean wanted to argue again, obviously, but it was kind of hard to argue when he was shaking too hard to hold the cup steady.

Dean didn't do anything by half-measures, John knew. _Boy can face crazy shit all day without flinching but put him on a plane and he's practically having a damn panic attack. _

With a dark scowl, Dean swallowed the proffered pill and relinquished his meager hold on the cup of water to his father before dropping his head back against the seat with a panicked expression as the plane bucked a little under their feet. He shifted forward with a groan, putting his head back down between his knees and leaving John unsure of whether he was about to vomit or pass out.

John moved his hand to Dean's back, rubbing comforting circles while Dean groaned, his hands resuming a death grip on the armrests.

"Just breathe and let the drugs kick in," John murmured as Dean coughed, and John wondered if he was going to have to grab the barf-bag. Luckily, Dean just gagged for a second before he got control of the urge to vomit, and slowly, over the next ten minutes, Dean's breathing began to slow. His death-grip relaxed and at last, his body went limp as he slumped sideways. John eased him back against the seat, hardly surprised when Dean slid sideways until he was propped up on John's shoulder.

Within another few minutes, they left the turbulence behind and the pilot's voice announced that they could take off their seatbelts and move around the cabin if necessary.

_Finally_, John thought, heaving a sigh of relief as he glanced up at the seatbelt light. Reassured that it was in fact off, he turned to Aubrey, who was happily brushing her Barbie's hair amidst a wardrobe change.

"Aubrey?"

"Sir?" she asked absently, dropping the brush in Sam's lap and frowning as she fiddled with the Velcro fastening at the back of her Barbie's dress.

"You mind looking in my bag and grabbing my journal and the big, green book that's with it? I don't want to disturb Dean by trying to move."

"Okay, Daddy," she said, dropping her Barbie on Sam's lap and unbuckling her seatbelt. Scooting past Sam and hopping across the aisle, she bent down and crawled under Braden's feet to get to the bag John had stuffed under his seat.

"Hey, Dad?"

Looking over, John saw Sam looking back at him with a slightly sheepish expression.

"Is Dean okay?" he asked, obviously feeling guilty about giving his brother a hard time over what was clearly more than a mild case of nerves.

"Yeah, he's fine now."

"Oh, well, um, you think he's mad at me?"

"Shouldn't you have thought of that _before_ you started ragging on him?"

"Yeah..." Sam grumbled, his foot nudging the footrest on the seat in front of him as he kept his eyes averted guiltily.

Aubrey popped back out into the aisle, handing John her things before dropping back into her seat and grabbing her Barbie back from Sam.

"Oh, and Sam?"

"Sir?"

"I don't guess I need to tell you that if you give Dean a hard time about this after we land, he's gonna make your life hell, do I?"

"No sir."

"Good, keep that in mind," John told him, turning back to his research as Dean slumbered next to him.

The case was certainly interesting, and if it wasn't a demon, John supposed it could be a shape-shifter. But it was really looking like a demon.

It had first appeared in 1911, murdering three people and attacking numerous others. It reappeared in 1918, terrorizing the people of New Orleans for a year and a half before disappearing once again. Nothing had been heard of it in the years since, which further suggested to John that it was a demon. If the thing had been exorcised, it might have taken it this long to escape Hell. And now it was back, either conjured by some demon-worshipping moron, or just powerful enough to drag itself out unaided. Either way, it was killing people with a vengeance, leaving enough bodies to have the police baffled and the entire French Quarter beginning to panic. It was strange enough that it was killing so many people to begin with, John knew. Most demons were a little more circumspect about their misdeeds, well aware that if they were too obvious, they'd attract the kind of attention that would get them exorcised by the nearest hunter.

The whole case was unique, he admitted. The French Quarter was practically built on superstition, hauntings, and strange tales. Hell, half the people who'd been interviewed back in the day stated flat out that the supposed serial killer was a demon, no questions asked. Most towns, most people, didn't want to admit to even the possibility that a killer was anything other than human. If the townsfolk were still willing to consider the idea, the job might be made a tad easier. Still, he was gonna have to be on top of his game if they were gonna stop the demon. Like he'd told Dean, the demon was escalating its attacks, leaving fewer and fewer people alive, unlike its attacks in 1918 and 1919.

John was eager to get to New Orleans. He'd encountered more demons than most hunters, actively seeking out the hunts that hinted at demonic involvement. Though he hadn't told Dean, he knew well enough that it was a demon that had killed Mary, and John operated off the idea that any demon he encountered might be the one.

_The M.O. on this one doesn't match, though. No fire, no mothers with their stomachs sliced, no children left behind. And no valid witness accounts. This one isn't the same thing that killed Mary. But one day…_

One day, he was gonna find that sonovabitch.

That was a fucking promise.

* * *

><p>Getting off the plane was only mildly easier than getting on, because while Dean wasn't a panic-stricken ball of nerves, he wasn't quite lucid either, just a bleary-eyed bundle of orneriness. And Braden was deadweight on John's shoulder, a casualty of the Dramamine-induced coma, which, while John could appreciate during travel, had to admit was a nuisance otherwise.<p>

_So how do we do this? _It only took John a moment to realize he was going to be forced to herd his offspring to the baggage claim, carrying Braden in one arm while keeping a firm hold on Dean with his free hand.

_It's all about prioritizing: keep up with the drugged ones that are too stoned to follow of their own volition._

"Sam, hold on to Aubrey, and you keep up with me, understand?"

"Yeah, yeah…"

"Samuel! I mean it—there are a lot of people here, and half of 'em are probably fucking crazy. So you stay with me, is that clear?"

"Yessir," Sam replied more respectfully, obviously grasping that John wasn't just talking out of his ass to hear his own voice. He stuck close, and they made it outside with everyone present and accounted for.

"Damn, 's fuckin' hot out here," Dean muttered crankily, his eyes bleary as he blinked against the bright Louisiana sun.

"No, shit," Sam threw in. "We're not gonna have to stay here long, are we, Dad?" Sam asked, his voice filled with the petulance that John had become increasingly familiar with since Sam had entered into teenage hormonal hell.

"As long as it takes to get the job done," John told him firmly, shifting Braden's weight to his other arm as he scanned the loading/unloading zone for Jeb.

"We don't have to go into the bayou, do we?" Sam asked, the hint of something akin to disgust in his voice evident. "The travel books say it's even hotter there, and the mosquitoes _alone_ could do us in—you know, if the snakes or the spiders don't get us first."

"We'll go there if we have to. Now quit whining."

"What are we doing, Daddy?" Aubrey asked, and John could only hope that she wasn't about to pick up where Sam had left off with the whining, because if he'd learned anything from his time with the twins, it was that Aubrey was a champion whiner.

"We're waiting for a guy I know. He's gonna pick us up here."

"Why can't we just take a taxi? There's like a hundred of 'em, and then we wouldn't have to stand out here and be bored," she told him earnestly.

"I just told you the answer to that, Aubrey. We're waiting for Jeb, and I don't wanna hear another word about it, understand?"

_Okay, so maybe it's not just my children who are cranky and irritable…_

"But, Daddy—"

"Aubrey, I swear—" John began, his patience at an end when Dean chose to interrupt.

"'m hungry. 's past lunch time. When 're we gonna eat?"

"After you almost hurled on the plane and Dad had to drug your ass, you're still hungry?" Sam asked him disbelievingly.

"'s what I fuckin' said," Dean retorted hotly, obviously not appreciating the reminder of his trouble on the plane.

"Daddy, what's this place called again?" Aubrey cut in, seemingly oblivious to the bickering and the fact that her father's blood pressure was about to go through the roof.

"The airport," Sam answered sarcastically, and this time, John didn't resist the urge to thump him.

"Quit being a smart-ass," he warned him, even as Aubrey gave Sam a dirty look.

"'s New Orleans, Aub," Dean answered. "Home of beignets and Cajun food. Which I'm never gonna get if we don't find a fucking restaurant soon."

"Oh, okay. Thanks, D. See, Sam," Aubrey said, turning to Sam with a scowl, "_Dean_ is nice, and he tells me things. That's why _he's_ my favorite."

_Until Dean does something to piss her off and she changes her mind, _John thought with a sigh.

"Oooh, I'm all torn up inside," Sam retorted dryly, rolling his eyes at her. Pointedly ignoring him, she turned back to John.

"So can we find the fucking restaurant now, Daddy?" Aubrey asked suddenly, staring up at him innocently even as Sam started laughing.

"Sweetheart, you really shouldn't say that," he told her gently, the look in her eyes belying the fact that she had no idea what she'd said.

"But D said it," she said, staring up at him with confused eyes.

"Yeah, I know, and _he_ shouldn't have said it either," John said, casting an annoyed look at his oldest, who was smirking as he turned away to watch the traffic flow in front of them with bleary eyes.

"How come?" Aubrey was asking. "Is a fucking restaurant a not-good kind? Do they have icky food there?" she went on, totally oblivious to her brothers' amusement.

"No, baby, there aren't any fucking restaurants—your brother wasn't using 'fucking' as an adjective to describe the restaurant, he was using it as emphasis, and…look, just understand that 'fuck' and all of its variations are inappropriate in pretty much every situation, especially in polite company. Okay?"

"I don't get it," she said, shaking her head with growing confusion.

_Shit, I'm too tired for this._

"It's a swear word, Aubrey, Dean's favorite," Sam clarified. "It's not _nice_, is what Dad's _trying_ to say." Though John didn't appreciate the smart-aleck tone, Sam's answer _did_ seem to do the trick, as Aubrey didn't have to think about Sam's words at all before she was nodding.

"Ohhhh. Why didn't you just say _that_, Daddy? That made lots more sense."

"I thought I did," John told her tiredly.

"No, not really. But I'm sorry—I won't say it no more."

"Thanks, sweetheart."

"What's the big deal, Dad?" Sam asked as Aubrey turned away, her attention caught by the souvenirs some guy was selling not too far away. "Hell, Dean says 'fuck' at least once every five minutes or so, unless we're somewhere that you'd bitch at him for it. And _you_ say it, too. What's the difference, then, if _she_ says it?" he went on, his eyebrow cocked as he openly challenged his father, his less-than-respectful tone rubbing John entirely the wrong way.

_He keeps this shit up, we're not gonna live through his teen years,_ John thought irritably, even as he turned a stern gaze on his middle son.

"The difference, Samuel, is that _I_ know what it means and when _not_ to say it. Now I suggest you quit giving me a hard time and reconsider your tone when you're talking to me."

It wasn't _really _a suggestion, and Sam picked up on it pretty damn fast, falling silent and kicking morosely at the ground with the toe of his tennis shoe. Thankfully, Jeb arrived before any of John's other children decided to test his patience any further. Jeb pulled up in front of them and popped open the back of his SUV so they could load their luggage.

It was one of those big mothers, the kind with two rows of seats in the back and a huge-ass cargo hold that would expand when you folded the seats up.

_Like driving a fucking tank, but useful,_ he thought as he started taking luggage from each of his children. Of course, that's when the squabbling began anew.

"Me and Bray wanna sit in the middle!" Aubrey chimed, jumping into the closest seat with a delighted smile, and for a second, John had the crazy notion that that would be the end of it. But of course not.

"No way!" Sam protested. "Youngest takes the backseat—that's you and Braden."

"Nuh-uh! We called it first!"

"Bullshit—Braden's not even awake—he didn't call _anything_!"

"Well _I_ did!"

"And I called it second," Sam pointed out, "so I get dibs before Braden."

"But I don't wanna sit with _you_," Aubrey retorted, sparing a look of disgust for her older brother. "I wanna sit with Bray."

"'m not fuckin' sittin' in the back," Dean announced suddenly, "and Dad's not gonna toss Braden over the fucking seat, so looks like you're both shit outta luck. Now shut it, and un-ass my seat," he told her, obviously expecting her compliance as he turned away to shove his bag into the cargo area with the other luggage.

"But that's not fair!" Aubrey yelled, not moving as her face took on the familiar stubborn tilt that John knew all too well.

"Tough shit," Dean barked. "I'm not fuckin' arguing with you," he told her, his mood obviously taking a nosedive. He grabbed Aubrey, lifting her over the middle and depositing her into the backseat as John looked on. "Get in, Sam."

"Man, this blows," Sam grumbled under his breath, but long years of experience dealing with his older brother in the midst of a post-narcotic frame of mind had taught Sam when to shut up and let Dean have his way.

_Good call, son. Good call._

Within minutes, John had deposited Braden in the seat beside Dean, and after making sure the little boy was secure, John climbed into the front seat beside Jeb, who had wisely chosen not to say a word during the Winchester family drama.

The A/C was running at full blast, settling around them and easing the discomfort of the New Orleans heat, and before they'd even left the airport, Dean had conked out again, and John knew without a doubt that Dean would be resentful as hell about it when he woke up later.

"Your boy there gonna be with it enough to help on this one, Johnny?" Jeb asked, glancing at Dean in the rearview mirror. "I mean, I know you're a lone-wolf and all, but you're gonna need help with this one, and I ain't in any shape to help ya," Jeb told him, gesturing to his left leg, which John knew had gotten fucked up in a disastrous Wendigo hunt several years ago. It had left Jeb with a bad limp that had relegated the other man to research duty for what was likely the rest of his hunting days.

"John?" he prompted when John didn't answer, obviously taking John's silence as confirmation. "This ain't a one-man job, y' hear?"

"Relax, would you? I'm taking Dean with me, just like I told you before. He'll be just fine, Jeb."

"You're not bullshittin' me, are ya?"

"Would I do that?" John asked him, throwing an innocent look in Jeb's direction.

"Hell yeah, you would," Jeb answered with a grin. "You'd do that and more. But look," he said, getting serious once more. "I know you like to do things on your own, but this ain't one of those kinda jobs. You try to do this one alone, and you're liable to get either really hurt or really dead."

"Jeb, lighten up, I'm not a fucking rookie—I know when to take back-up. I already told you, Dean's got my back on this one."

"You sure he's up to it? 'Cause from where I'm sittin', he ain't lookin' so hot."

"He doesn't fly well—I had to give him something to calm him down. He just needs to sleep it off, that's all."

"Well, just make sure you give him time before you rush headlong into this hunt. Ya'll gotta be on top of your game if you're gonna pull this off."

"You just get us where we're going—I'll take care of Dean."

"You're, uh, not takin' the other three, though, right?"

"Thought about bringing Sam along, too, but I haven't decided yet."

"But, Dad, you said I could come," Sam protested from the back, his voice tight as he stared back at John with a betrayed expression.

"No, I said I'd _think_ about it. I need to do a little more research on things first. This one might be too dangerous, and I'm still trying to figure out what to do with the twins if I take you with us. I don't like leaving them alone without one of us. I might need you to stay with them."

"They'll be fine without me!"

"No, we want you to stay with us, Sam!" Aubrey threw in, and it was all John could do not to throw his hands up and beg for mercy.

"Shut-up, Aubrey!" Sam told her vehemently.

"Sam, don't talk to your sister that way. Now I told you I haven't decided yet, but you're gonna have to accept that whatever I decide is what's best for everybody. If I need you to stay, then you're gonna have to stay."

"Why don't you just go ahead and admit it, Dad?" Sam said resentfully. "You've already decided that you're not taking me with you! I'm gonna end up with the twins! Again! They ruin everything!"

"Hey!" John barked, suddenly done arguing with his fifteen-year-old. "My decision is just that—_mine_. _I'll _decide whether you're going or not. But I will tell you this much—your attitude right now is not exactly putting you in my good graces. So I suggest you stop while you're still ahead. You feel me?"

Sam glared back at him with a look that just screamed "I hate your guts" before slumping in the seat, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared angrily out the window.

_Why do I get the feeling that this is far from over?_

_Maybe because I know my son._

_Damn._

"Ooo—eee, Johnny, you sure got yourself a spitfire there," Jeb said low under his breath.

"No shit."

"Thought you just had the two older ones."

"Yeah, so did I, until about a year ago."

"How're the new ones fittin' in?"

"About as well as can be expected," John told him, deciding not to mention the hamster, the crying, the clinging, the drama, and the weirdness that went hand-in-hand with his two youngest.

"Well…if you decide to take Sam there with you, your little 'uns are safe with me."

"I know they are, Jeb," John told him sincerely. "I'm just not sure how well they'll take it. Well, Braden wouldn't give a shit—nothing much riles him. But Aubrey…she's liable to go postal. She's got some…separation anxiety issues."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And it's hell," John said, glancing back to make sure Aubrey wasn't listening before he continued. "I can't step outside the damn door without upsetting her. I thought raising two boys on my own was tough, but…damn, if one little girl isn't bringing me to my fucking knees."

"Ah, she'll grow out of it."

"I sure as hell hope so."

"Well, if you're not sure about takin' your boys, I got a few numbers I could call. Might take 'em a day or two to get here, but…"

"Nah, I think we can handle it. I wanna do some more research first, see how much help I'm likely to need."

"Daddy! Can we ride one o' those?" Aubrey yelled suddenly, an excited, high pitched girl-squeal that had John wincing. Glancing back to see what she was referring to, he saw her gaze following a streetcar with absolute glee, unmatched by even the joy of her Barbies.

"Maybe later, sweetheart."

"You sure we can't ride one now? They look fun," she told him cajolingly, her blue eyes staring back at him with hope.

"Not today—I've got some stuff to take care of first. You'll have to wait, unless you can talk Dean into taking you. But don't ask him right now," he told her before she could wake the older boy.

"But I can ask him later?"

"Yeah."

"How much later?"

"Aubrey," he said firmly, letting his tone tell her in no uncertain terms that he was done. He'd learned quickly enough that if he let her, she'd play Twenty Questions for hours.

"I bet that one's a pistol," Jeb said with a chuckle, and John sighed, shaking his head ruefully.

"You have no idea," John told him with an affectionate but tired smile.

"Daddy, where're we goin?"

_Shit._

"Jeb's house," John told her, already anticipating her next question.

_Wait for it, wait for it…_

"When are we gonna get there?"

_Yep._

"A few more minutes, darlin'," Jeb answered for her, and Aubrey smiled, delighted, and obviously taking his response as an invitation to start chattering at him.

"I like your car, Mr. Jeb—it's bigger 'n the 'Pala…but don't tell D I said so. He thinks Baby is the best car on the whole planet. She's nice, but this one's got more room."

"Speak for yourself," Sam muttered, his height having left him with less room than Aubrey's much smaller stature.

"I even got a cup-holder all my own, Sam," Aubrey told him. "See, you got one, too!"

"Too bad I don't have a drink to put in it," Sam said pointedly, and John merely had to glance back to put a stop to what was no doubt about to turn into a bitch session.

"If we _had_ drinks, would you let us have 'em in the car to put in our cup-holders, Mr. Jeb?"

"We _don't_ have drinks, Aubrey—quit askin' stupid questions," Sam retorted.

"Quit in-aruptin' me, Sam! I wasn't askin' _you_!" she yelled, only to turn back to Jeb with a sweet expression. "So would you?"

"Well, if you _did_ have drinks, I reckon so."

"D won't let us have drinks in Baby very much—Daddy has to make 'im let us," Aubrey informed Jeb.

"Likes his car, does he?"

"Yessir. He says it'll mess up his 'terior."

"His 'terior'?"

"Yeah, you know, the inside stuff. He cleans her all the time, and he gets real mad if we make a mess in the backseat. We try to be careful, but the car bumps sometimes on those pothole thingies, so we spill stuff sometimes. If we're real sneaky, he don't notice, though, not if we clean it up real fast before he sees it."

John chuckled at that, wondering just how often the twins managed to get away with such spills.

"So can we, Daddy?"

"Can you what?"

"Can we get something to drink? I'm thirsty. Bray is, too."

It reminded John of that funny-as-hell mouse story, the one about the mouse and the cookie that Sam had asked him to read almost every night for a month after he'd heard it at school when he was six.

_If you show a kid a cup-holder, she's probably gonna want a cup to put in it. And if you give her the cup, she's probably gonna want something to eat along with it…_

"Johnny? You want me to hit a drive-thru? I mean, we're not far from my place, but there's a McDonald's about ten minutes the other way."

"Nah, they can wait until we get to your place. I don't want you going out of your way. Besides, the sooner we get there, the sooner I can start doing some legwork on this case. I can't get a bead on its agenda, and it's pissing me off."

"Sorry about that, Aubrey," Jeb told the little girl staring back at them from the back. "I tried, but your ol' man didn't go for it."

"Tha's alright, Mr. Jeb—we don't go to McDonald's anyway. D says it's 'cause Sam's afraid of clowns."

"Shut-up, Aubrey!" Sam barked, obviously not appreciating his little sister spilling the beans.

"It's alright, Sam," she told him soothingly. "We're all scared of _somethin'_."

"Yeah, well, I don't hear you tellin' everybody on the planet about the stuff you're scared of!" Sam retorted, his face red from anger and embarrassment.

"Alright, alright, enough!" John interrupted, wishing like hell that his children weren't so damned argumentative. He'd thought Aubrey and Sam would get along well, but these days, they mostly seemed to snipe at one another more often than not. Granted, Sam usually started it, which was par for the course these days, but Aubrey was settling right in, perfectly willing to shovel it back at him.

'_course, maybe that just means he'll get it out of his system with Aubrey and not start shit with me…_

_Yeah. Right. _

Thankfully, they reached the Creole townhouse that Jeb called home a few minutes later, and though John wasn't much for architecture and shit, even he had to admit it was a nice place. Huge, too, John admitted.

As though he sensed the stopping of the car, Dean stirred from the mini-nap he'd been taking, staring around groggily before the crankiness came back to his features and he shoved his way out of the car.

Braden finally stirred as John lifted him out of the seat and set him down, but John could tell from the look on his youngest son's face that tears were a definite possibility in the near future. He wasn't prone to fits and temper tantrums—no, that would be John's other children—but even he wasn't immune to the meltdowns brought on by exhaustion. Despite the fact that he'd slept for the entire flight as well as the drive, the little boy was still tired, and it always left him in that 'one step away from crying' state that children were so often prone to when they were tired.

"Jeb, 've you got somewhere I can lay Braden down? He's about five minutes away from a meltdown."

"I am not!" Braden said hotly, staring back at John mutinously, even as John laid a hand on his shoulder and began to steer him toward the house.

"Yeah, take the front staircase, second door on the left. Here," Jeb told him, tossing him a key on a dangly keychain. "I'll help the other three unload."

"Thanks, Jeb," John said, already maneuvering the sullen nine-year-old toward the house. By the time John had Braden settled on the large bed in a guestroom upstairs, Jeb had managed to help the kids get everything inside.

"There're couple more spare bedrooms up there, Johnny—you're welcome to 'em."

John nodded his thanks, about to round everyone up to help get the gear out of the entryway, but Sam beat him to the punch.

"Can we look around, Jeb?"

"Sam—" John began, but Jeb cut him off with a smile.

"Sure, Sam—just stay out of the study, that door there," he said, nodding towards the open door at the end of the hall.

"How come?" Aubrey asked, sidestepping before John could thump her for being nosy.

"I've got weapons out and other stuff in there that pretty little girls like yourself don't need to see," Jeb told her with a wink.

"Oh, okay."

Aubrey and Sam raced off to explore the house while Dean turned to John questioningly.

"You want me to stay, Dad?"

"Nah, go on with your brother and sister for now. I'll fill you in later."

Dean nodded, and turned to follow his siblings, though at a more sedate pace, no doubt ready to find a spot to settle in until the drugs left his system.

_Hopefully, he'll sleep it off before I have to deal with him acting pissy and ornery all night. _

"So what's your plan, then?" Jeb asked as he dropped onto the settee in what John correctly assumed was a 'sitting room.'

_Place reeks of old money. Too damn fancy for a hunter,_ he thought, eyeing the settee as though as it might break any moment. _Hell, if I sit on the damn thing, too, it probably will. _He settled instead for a somewhat sturdier looking chair positioned diagonally away from Jeb.

"I've got a little legwork to do before I start going after this thing, need to figure out what's motivating it and look for signs of demonic activity. I wanna check into the voodoo angle, just to rule it out if nothing else. I'm still trying to figure out a pattern to the killings. If I can do that, I might be able to figure out where it's gonna strike next."

"And you think you'll be able to handle it with just Dean?"

"Hey, Dean's young, but he's got all the makings of a damn fine hunter. He's already pretty good—he just needs to get some more experience under his belt."

"What about Sam? You think it's a good idea to take a kid his age into a hunt like this one? Demons ain't exactly small potatoes, Johnny. Especially one that's actin' all rabid like this one. Demons try to keep a lower profile while they're out doing all that evil shit—keeps 'em from gettin' caught and sent back to hell. This one, though, it doesn't seem to give a shit, and that's what's got me worried."

"Yeah, you're probably right," John admitted. "This might be more than Sam's ready for. Don't get me wrong—he's got a good head on his shoulders, but yeah…If nothing else, I'll let him help out on the research. He'll be a big help when it comes to—"

"I knew it!"

John turned at the sound of Sam's voice, cursing silently at the sight of his fifteen-year-old standing in the doorway.

_How is it that I always forget Sam's propensity for eavesdropping? Fuck._

"Sam—"

"I knew you'd leave me here—you always do! You always leave me behind!"

"C'mon, Sam, let's don't do this—" he started, but Sam shook his head, angry tears now spilling down his face.

"I've been training really hard—I've done everything you told me to do, but it's never enough! Why isn't it ever enough for you?"

John's heart clenched painfully at the hurt in his son's face, in his voice, and he stood, reaching out only to have Sam back away, shaking his head again as he choked back a sob. Sam spun on his heel and ran out, his pounding footsteps sounding on the stairs. A door slammed a moment later, giving rise to an uncomfortable silence.

"Damn it," John muttered, sinking back into the chair with a weary sigh as Jeb looked on with a pitying look.

"I'll see if I can find a way to cheer him up while you and Dean are gone," Jeb offered, but John shook his head.

"I doubt there's anything you can do, Jeb. There won't be any appeasing him—he's got too much of me in him. He's pissed, and he's gonna stay that way until he's good and ready to let it go. Best thing is to just stay out of his way."

_And hope for the best,_ John added silently as he reluctantly stood and went to get his gear together for the evening's reconnaissance. No doubt it was gonna be a long, hot, miserable-as-hell stay in the Big Easy.


	2. AWOL

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

A/N: Please note that I am not a spatially gifted person, so if I somehow managed to create a geographical impossibility with the street names and the places, I apologize. I managed to get lost while I was visiting New Orleans, so it would hardly be surprising if I messed up the directions and such.

Chapter 2: AWOL

As the door to one of Jeb's guestrooms slammed shut behind Sam, Dean scowled. No doubt he'd been bitching it out with their dad again—and it sounded like it ended about the way it usually did, which was not well.

'_s fucking ridiculous._

Aubrey was sitting on a sofa in what Dean kinda thought might be a den—considering how many rooms Jeb's house seemed to have, Dean couldn't say for sure. He flopped down onto it, stretching out on his stomach and nudging Aubrey continually with his foot until she huffily got up and moved to the floor, relinquishing the couch to him completely. He didn't feel bad about it, really, because the truth was, he felt a little like shit.

His head felt kinda cloudy, and he could still feel the pull of drowsiness left over from his dad's stupid meds. To make things worse, hunger was adding to the almost nauseous feeling that was nagging at him. It pissed him off.

Turning his head towards the door, he eyed it for a long moment, considering, before opening his mouth.

"DAD! 'm gonna puke if I don't get some food!" he yelled.

John appeared in the doorway a second later, staring at Dean where he lay apathetically on the couch, his face partially buried in the couch pillow.

"Are you serious?" John asked him with a deadpan expression.

"'m hungry."

"And that makes it okay for you to yell across the damn house like that? Like I didn't teach you any manners?"

"You didn't," Dean retorted. "Mom did."

"Dammit, Dean—" his father began, obviously starting to get a little hot under the collar as he dragged a hand over his face.

"What? It's your stupid drugs makin' me feel like 'm gonna hurl! I need some damn food!"

"Look, sleep it off for a little while, give the drugs some time to wear off, and _then_ we'll try food. You were way too close to hurling on the plane, and you've never had Valium before—I don't know if it'll make you sick, and I'd rather have you sick on an empty stomach then a full stomach."

It was probably a reasonable suggestion, but Dean wasn't having any of it.

"Or we could just go and get me some food and hope for the best," Dean retorted, vaguely aware that he was getting dangerously close to pushing too far but too irritable to give a shit.

"Uh…Johnny," Jeb called from somewhere else in the house. "Your youngest boy's in here drawing some kinda hoodoo shit on my floor—you need to get your ass down here!"

"Dammit," John said, wheeling around and hurrying out to deal with Braden as Dean stared crankily after him. Five minutes, twenty-eight seconds, and a stomach rumble later, Dean had had enough.

_Fuck it. I'll go and get my own damn food. I'm eighteen fucking years old—I don't have to wait for my old man to take me. We're in New Orleans—there's food within walking distance."_

He peeled himself off the couch and double-checked that his wallet was still in his back pocket before he headed for the door.

"Where ya' goin', D?" Aubrey called after him, her blue eyes gazing back at him with concern.

"To find some damn food. You comin' with me?"

"Is Daddy goin', too?"

"Doesn't fucking sound like it, does it?"

"Nah, I guess not," she told him after considering it for a second.

"So are you in or out?"

"Ummm…I'm gonna wait for Daddy," she told him, turning back to the TV.

_Suit yourself._

He headed to the guest room where he'd heard Sam slam the door, hardly surprised that the door was locked. He banged his fist against it a few times to get Sammy's attention.

"'m goin' for food. If you're comin' with me, you'd better move your ass."

When there wasn't even a 'screw you' in reply, Dean pressed his ear to the door, frowning when he heard tell-tale sniffling.

_Ah shit. 'm too tired and hungry and sick for this,_ Dean thought with a sigh, even as he reached into his back pocket for his lock-picks. He made quick work of picking the lock, pushing open the door and quietly making his way to the bed where Sam was laying on his stomach, his face buried in his arms as he fought to stop the flow of tears.

"Hey, you okay?" Dean asked him, already predicting a soon to be total chick flick moment.

"Leave me alone!" Sam barked, and part of Dean wanted to do just that: leave His Royal Bitchiness alone to deal with his emo shit on his own. But as irritable as Dean was, the big brother in him couldn't just leave his little brother miserable and hurting. And crying.

_Shit._

"What happened?"

"He said I can't go," Sam sobbed, and underneath the anger and the tears, it was pretty easy to see the hurt.

"Sammy, I've told you before, you shouldn't take it personally. If Dad changed his mind, it's not because of _you_. He just does shit like that sometimes, usually 'cause he knows something we don't."

"How come he only does it to _me_ then?" Sam asked hotly.

"Because I'm fucking older, Sammy—I've got a few more years under my belt. Dad leaves me behind if he thinks he needs to, but he just doesn't think he has to so much anymore, not since I've gotten older. Guess he figures if I'm old enough to die for my country, then I'm old enough to help on hunts that I've been training for since I was little."

"I've been training, too, Dean! And he still won't let me help!"

"Well you gotta remember, I've been helping him out since I was the twins' age, Sammy. He knows what I'm capable of."

"But I'm fifteen, now—he let you help when you were nine! Why won't he let me?"

"Dad let me help because he didn't have anybody else, Sammy. He didn't have a fucking choice, and neither did I. He's letting you hang back, get some more training before throwing you out there. I didn't get that chance."

"But I can help! I know I can! And besides, how 'm I supposed to get better if he never lets me come?"

"He _will_, Sammy—'s just…this hunt's looking like it's gonna be nasty. A demon isn't somethin' to mess around with. Hell, Dad might decide to leave my ass here, too."

"Yeah, right. There's no way he'd leave you sitting on your ass here _babysitting,_" Sam told him acerbically, the disdain in his voice evident.

"Hey, you listen to me," Dean said suddenly, grabbing Sam's chin and forcing the younger boy to meet his gaze. "Maybe you haven't been paying attention, but there've been plenty of times where I've stayed behind to watch _you_ and now the twins. I don't fucking hesitate to do it, either. Ever. And _you_ shouldn't either. Because there is _nothing_ more important than family, Sammy. _Nothing_," Dean told him tightly.

"Okay, okay!" Sam said, wrenching his head out of Dean's grasp, and Dean knew that Sam just didn't get it. He could only hope that Sammy figured it out one day.

"Now are you done with your little emo-bitch fest? Cause I'm tired, and I'm fuckin' starving."

"You're _always_ starving. Maybe something's wrong with you."

"Doesn't change the fact that I'm hungry. So are you coming or not?"

"Yeah, 'm coming…is Dad coming, too?"

"Well, considering he gave me the brush-off a few minutes ago, I'm guessing no. Now get up and let's haul ass—I want some Cajun food."

"kay," Sam said, swiping at his face with his shirt sleeve before he stood, and as he followed Dean downstairs, Dean really thought that was the end of it. Problem solved.

Of course, he should've known better.

* * *

><p>With a command for Aubrey to let their dad know they'd gone for some chow, Dean led Sam out through the courtyard and onto the street. A quick sniff had him turning left, his innate sense of direction keeping him oriented despite the tiredness still pulling at him.<p>

"You realize it's gonna piss Dad off that we left without telling him, right?" Sam asked.

"We told Aubrey," Dean pointed out, looking both ways before he pulled Sam along with him across the street.

"Yeah, but—"

"And Dad didn't say we _couldn't _go anywhere, did he?" Dean went on.

"Well, no, but…you know that you're really just rationalizing, right?"

"Hey, Dad left a loophole—'s not my fault. Besides, you _like_ pissing him off, so what are you bitching about?"

"I dunno. I guess I was just wonderin'."

"I'm fucking hungry, Sam—and I kinda feel like shit warmed over, so you'll have to forgive me if I'm not really in the mood to wait for his permission. It's his fault anyway—I told him I didn't want his damn drugs, and he made me take 'em anyway."

"Well, you _did_ look kinda green on the plane," Sam told him, "and you were sorta hyperventilating."

"The fuckin' plane was actin' funny—and you can't tell me that tons of metal flyin' through the sky makes any kind of sense! There's no way in hell that's natural."

"Well, it's physics, Dean—"

"Not interested, Sammy. Now shut up and keep your eyes open for food."

Dean thought for sure it'd be a quick trip to find food, but damn if Sammy didn't keep stopping to look in windows and ask annoying questions.

"Hey, look, Dean—there's an antique weapons store! They've got swords!"

"Food, Sammy," Dean said, grabbing his brother by the arm and dragging him along until Sam started moving of his own volition again.

"Can we look in there later?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to respond with an immediate no, but…well, swords. Swords were cool.

"Yeah, but it might not be today. Told you, I feel like shit."

"Oh right," Sam said, but Dean could tell his attention had already shifted to something else.

"Hey, what are they doing?" Sam asked, beginning to step off the sidewalk towards the other side of the street before Dean even looked up.

"They're showing off their goods, Sam," Dean said, yanking Sam back onto the sidewalk and hurrying him along.

"What are they selling? It doesn't look like they're carrying anything…"

_Oh no, he did not seriously ask me that. _

But he had, because he was totally looking up at Dean with a confused look on his face that had Dean fighting the urge to face-palm.

"What planet are you from? The fact that you can be _my _brother and not know these things is just fucking mind-boggling," Dean told him, rolling his eyes at the completely clueless expression on his little brother's face. "Sex, Sam—they're prostitutes."

"Ohhhhhhh," Sam murmured, allowing Dean to pull him along as he considered this bit of information. "Well, why do—"

"No, Sam," Dean told him, cutting him off. "We're not talking about it. You got questions about hookers, you can ask Dad. I'm hungry, I'm tired, and I'm nauseous. I'm not talking to you about sex, prostitutes, or anything else right now. We're looking for food."

"Fine," Sam grumbled. "Grouchy much?"

"What part of 'I feel like shit' do you not understand?" Dean asked him testily, but Sam had already moved on.

"Wow, look at that, Dean—'s a voodoo museum!"

"We're not here to play tourist, Sam. Stay focused—food."

"Dude, you're totally taking the fun out of this," Sam complained, his voice breaking as he started to hit that whiny pitch that even Dean couldn't stand any more than their dad.

"I swear, dude—if you start that whining shit, I am sending your ass back to the house and going on without you."

"But it's a voodoo museum!"

"That doesn't serve food. We're not going. 'sides, Dad would shit a brick if we went in there."

"Can we come back later then? I wanna go to the French Market."

"Isn't that outside?"

"Kinda. I mean, there's a roof," Sam said brightly, obviously trying to convince Dean that the French Market would be nine kinds of awesome. "The sun wouldn't be on us, and there'd be a nice breeze flowing through, since it's all open and everything—it'd be fun!"

_Nope, not gonna work, little brother. Not convincing at all. _

"What the hell would make you think I wanna go there? It's fucking hot out here."

"Yeah, but they've got lots of cool stuff there! Well, that's what I read anyway."

"Geek."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Dean veered onto Ursulines Avenue, having decided to get off Royal Street—the restaurants there were too fancy—and it was only when he turned onto Decatur Street that he finally found what he considered an acceptable restaurant. Of course, that set Sam off again about the damn French Market, but Dean was mostly past listening to him at that point. Mostly. Dragging Sam inside the cool, air conditioned restaurant, he ordered the first thing on the menu, something called shrimp etoufee, while Sam went with a po boy that obviously sounded safer to him than anything with a French-sounding name.

_Wuss._

They made short work of eating—Dean was too hungry to sit and enjoy, and he knew good and well that their dad was more likely to notice their absence the longer they were gone. He finished first, and prodded Sam to hurry, well aware that Sam was purposefully eating at a snail's pace.

_Little punk knows Dad'll notice we're missing if he takes fucking eternity to eat. Probably relishing the idea of pissing him off by coming with me. Yeah. Sounds about right._

Eight blocks, four street musicians, and fifteen souvenir shop windows later, they made it back to Jeb's, and any hope that Dean had harbored in regard to his father not noticing their absence was shot to hell. All told, Dean figured they were only gone about seventy-three minutes, but it was enough to have their dad royally pissed by the time they walked through the door.

"Where the hell have you been?" John yelled as soon as they crossed the threshold.

"I told you—I was hungry," Dean said with a shrug, surreptitiously nudging Sam towards the door, even as John moved into Dean's space. Dean hated it when he did that. "'sides, you didn't say we couldn't."

"In what fucking universe is that _ever_ a good reason for leaving without my permission?" John yelled, apparently angry enough that he didn't notice Sam's strategic retreat. "You scared the hell outta me, and you're old enough to know better!"

"I shouldn't have to ask—I'm fuckin' eighteen. But maybe if you'd just _listened_ to me, then I wouldn't have been taking off without your permission anyway," Dean told him impatiently, wishing like hell that they could be done with this whole thing so that he could move on. Or throw up, which was becoming the more likely option at that moment.

"You told me you were hungry, and I told you to wait—how the hell does that add up to 'can I leave the house?'" John went on, and Dean couldn't say when continuing the argument suddenly became less of a distraction for Sam and more of an actual display of temper. Whatever the cause, Dean didn't really have it in him to acquiesce this time, too tired, sick, and irritable to give a damn.

"You're a smart guy, Dad," he heard himself say. "I just assumed you'd figure it out."

"First of all, you'd better stow the attitude and fast, because that shit doesn't fly with me. Hung-over from the meds or not, you don't talk to me that way—do you understand?"

Dean said nothing, glaring back at his father as he tried to push down the urge to throw-up all over Jeb's carpet.

"Can I go now?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"I _said, _'do you understand?'" John bit out tightly, obviously unwilling to answer Dean's question until he had an answer to his own question.

_Fuck. _

"Yessir," Dean mumbled, angrier than ever that his dad would never let shit go.

_And Sam's the same fucking way. It's a wonder I'm not psychologically fucked up in the head because of this shit._

"Good. Now let's get one thing clear. We're in the middle of a hunt, and anything could've fucking happened to you—so from here on, you don't put so much as a damn foot out of this house without my permission."

"Wow, Dad, I can feel the trust," Dean retorted. "You know, I'm not a fucking moron—I know how to handle myself."

"This isn't about trust, son! I trust you just fine, and I _know_ you can handle yourself most of the time. But this hunt—if this thing is as bat-shit crazy as we think it is, we don't have the luxury of you taking off whenever you feel like it, especially without telling me!"

"I did tell you!"

"No, you didn't! I remember our last conversation very well, and not once did I hear 'Dad, I'm taking Sam and going out for chow!' You didn't tell me a damn thing!"

"Maybe not in so many words, but—"

"You know what? We're done. You listen, and you listen good," John said, obviously not willing to even pretend he was willing to continue the argument. "Don't you ever fucking leave without telling me, do you understand?"

Dean wasn't normally one to argue with or provoke his father, he had always had authority issues, and that last demand was pretty much the last straw. Besides, the mild urge to throw up had quickly become more than mild, and it was only making things that much worse that his father may have actually had a point about the fucking Valium making him sick.

"What's the big fucking deal? I was hungry, and _you_ didn't seem to give a damn— I just wanted some fucking food so I wouldn't throw up all over Jeb's nice, fancy furniture! But I'm probably gonna do that anyway, so fine, Dad—you were right about the Valium! And I'm fucking sorry, okay? I'm sorry I took off, I'm sorry I ate, and I'm sorry you were fucking right about it making me sick!" he yelled, but he figured he probably didn't sound too sincere. Especially since he wasn't sincere. Except about the throwing up part—he was totally sincere about that.

"If you'd just listened to me from the start, then you wouldn't be feeling so bad," John pointed out, not looking quite as angry as he had only a few moments ago. "I know what I'm talking about, son. I don't tell you this shit to piss you off or to hear myself talk."

"What do you want me to tell you, Dad?" Dean asked him with equal parts anger, frustration, and weariness. "I _said_ you were right."

"Just go upstairs and sleep it off, Dean," his father finally ordered with an aggravated sigh. "I don't know how the fuck I forgot the fact that you're irritable as hell after you take meds. My own damn fault, I guess, for not remembering."

"Told you," Dean muttered.

"And you're irrational, too."

"Bullshit! I'm totally fucking rational!" Dean argued, even as John wrapped a hand around his shoulder and began maneuvering him upstairs.

"So rational you decided taking off with your little brother into the French Quarter where there's a demon on the loose was a good idea?"

"The demon hasn't attacked during the day," Dean retorted. "I wouldn't have taken him if I thought he'd get hurt."

"Just lay down, Dean," John told him with a sigh as he ushered him into the second of Jeb's guestrooms.

"I wouldn't have let anything happen to him, Dad," Dean said, paying no attention as his father pushed him onto the bed, forcing him to lie down.

"Yeah, I know you wouldn't," John said softly. "You just…you gotta let me know where you're going. You're almost an adult, and I realize that. But you're my still my son, and I worry. Now, do you still feel like you're gonna yack?"

Dean thought about it for a second, considering, happy to realize that the nausea had settled now that he was laying down, leaving only the lingering drowsiness in its place.

"No sir."

"Good. Get some sleep—I'm gonna need you good to go come nightfall."

"You know, if you hadn't fuckin' made me take that shit, I'd already _be_ good to go," Dean pointed out, somewhat aware that he sounded a bit like a five-year-old. A really foul-mouthed five-year-old, but still…

"Yeah, yeah, it's all my fault," John said with a slight smile as he draped a blanket over Dean and dropped a pillow over Dean's face. And as Dean rolled over onto his stomach and burrowed his head more firmly under the pillow, his irritation melting away, he was already falling asleep as he heard his father shut the door quietly behind him.

* * *

><p>Dean spent a long night following his father from one location to another, keeping watch while John searched the areas where the demon had made its kills. Unfortunately, other than the presence of sulfur—which had at least confirmed that it <em>was<em>, in fact, a demon—there was no other trace of its presence, and Dean couldn't see that there was any pattern to its kills.

Which was gonna be a fucking nightmare, Dean knew, because it not only made it harder to track the son of a bitch down but it also pissed off the old man. Made it a bitch to work with him.

They rounded out the night with a visit to a local voodoo priestess, who had assured them that the case didn't have any connections to voodoo.

"You don't actually believe her, do you?" Dean asked as they slipped back into the shadowed alley and headed back towards the street.

"Yeah, I do."

"What the hell, Dad? You can't trust her!"

"Dean, don't confuse what you see on movies and TV with reality—voodoo isn't sticking pins into a bunch of ugly-as-hell dolls. Their belief system is actually based around helping people, not hexes and voodoo dolls. It's only a select few that go dark-side and start dabbling in that kind of shit. What most practitioners do doesn't make them untrustworthy—it just makes them worth keeping an eye on. And they can be valuable resources, so long as they stick to the basic tenets of voodoo."

"So how do you know she's not stickin' pins into some Winchester-shaped dolls, huh?"

"Jeb trusts her, and while that doesn't automatically make me trust her, I can at least appreciate that she's never steered him wrong, and Jeb was born and raised here. People around here learn pretty damn fast who's reliable and who's a snake in the grass. So, no, I don't think she's lying."

"So if they're so 'Glenda, the good Witch,' how come you suspected a voodoo angle in the first place?"

"Because it's _New Orleans_, Dean—you _always_ have to suspect a voodoo angle. It's assumed until you rule it out."

"So no voodoo chick manhunt, huh?" Dean asked, disappointed by the prospect.

"Sorry, son, not this time."

"Damn. So now what?"

"We head back to the house and hit the books again—I've got a few things I wanna look into, and besides, the cops are starting to sniff around. I don't want us out here where we're liable to come under scrutiny."

"Dude, 'come under scrutiny'? You been watchin' those cop shows on TV again?"

"Shut-up," his dad said amicably as he playfully cuffed Dean on the shoulder before horse-collaring him and dragging him along for a few steps.

By the time they were nearing the house, it was a little after midnight, and Dean was longing for bed, his 'nap' from earlier not enough to sustain him.

"You alright?"

"'m tired."

"When we get back to the house, you head on to bed."

"I thought you wanted to do research," Dean mentioned, intentionally slurring his words a bit for effect.

Sure, he was tired, but he wasn't _that_ tired. He had to offer the reminder, though—it was all part of the game.

_Have to make Dad think I _wanna_ help. Otherwise, he won't fall for it._

"Yeah, but I can manage," John told him, ruffling Dean's hair affectionately. "Jeb can help me out if I need it."

"You're gonna ask him for research help after making him watch the twins and Sam all night? That's cold, Dad," Dean said with a grin.

"Hey, they're doing a lot better," John started to say, but Dean shook his head.

_You're totally defaulting to denial, Dad._

"What planet are you living on? Braden still sleepwalks and does freaky shit while he does it, Aubrey still stays awake and crying until we're back, and Sam mostly acts like a whiny, little bitch these days. How is that 'better'?

"Sam at least knows better than to pull that shit with somebody outside the family. And Braden…well, I told Jeb to hide anything that he can use to write on the wall, so even if he gets up, we should be okay."

"And what about Aubrey?"

"At least she's quieter about it these days," John said weakly after a moment's consideration.

"That's weak, man," Dean said, yawning afterward for good measure.

"Yeah, you're right. On second thought, maybe I'll just handle the research on my own."

"Well…if you're sure, Dad."

"Yeah, I'm sure—you go on to bed like I said."

_And my work here is done_, Dean thought, hiding a smile. Getting out of research was getting easier and easier every time.

* * *

><p>"Dean!"<p>

The sound of his father's voice slowly pulled Dean out of a sound sleep, the lingering pull of sleep proving hard to shake. He'd been dreaming about the shrimp etoufee, and the urge to give into sleep and get back to it was hard to deny.

_Sounds totally lame with that pansy French name, but damn if it wasn't nine kinds of awesome. _It had been totally worth getting yelled at by their dad for taking off. Of course, food usually made things worth it, Dean had found, and—

"Dean!"

His father's hand on his shoulder jolted Dean firmly awake, the last traces of sleep falling away as John roughly shook him.

"Shit, Dad, take it easy—'m up. What time 's it?"

"Where's your brother, Dean?" John demanded, his hands gripping Dean's shoulders firmly.

"Huh?"

"Sam, Dean—where's Sam?"

"What, he's not downstairs?"

"No, dammit—it's two o'clock in the fucking morning! He's supposed to be in bed," John snapped.

"He didn't get up to piss, did he?"

"I'm not stupid, Dean—his bed's cold, and I've checked the whole damn house. He's not here."

"Oh shit," Dean said, shoving aside the blankets and reaching for his clothes.

"Did he say anything to you about going out again?" John asked as Dean dragged his jeans on and began pulling his shirt over his head.

"No sir," Dean told him firmly. "Did you check the courtyard?" he asked, shoving his left boot on and yanking the laces tight.

"Of course I did," John said, dragging a hand through his hair in sheer frustration. "He's not here. Do you know where he'd have gone?"

"No sir. Look, I'll head north if you'll take south—he'll probably keep to a straight path. Maybe we can track him down," Dean said, tying up the laces on his right boot before standing.

"It's not safe for us to split up right now—this thing is still out there, and we don't know enough about what It's doing."

"Yeah, and Sammy's alone," Dean argued. "We don't have time to waste, Dad."

"Shit," John muttered, obviously aware that Dean was right but not liking it. Dean didn't say anything, instead waiting for his father to decide what to do, even as worry began to eat at him.

_C'mon, Dad, hurry and decide! We gotta go!_

"Alright, Dean. But if you find him first, you bring him straight back here, you understand? I don't want him out there, not on this one."

"Yessir."

"C'mon, let's arm up."

Eight minutes, three reminders to stay sharp, and four weapons checks later, Dean was out on the street, his father's journal in his backpack along with a bottle of now-blessed Aquafina and some extra weapons.

Only a couple of hours had passed since they'd been out, but there was an ominous feel to the air, a product of the storm clouds moving in that had brought with them the distant sound of thunder. Despite the late hour, the French Quarter was still buzzing, Dean decided, as he threaded his way through the meandering groups of people, from the natives out for fun and booze to the tourists out for the fucking ghost tours.

_What a bunch of bullshit. What the hell are all these people doing anyway? Haven't they put it all together yet? Don't they realize what's out here? There's a fucking demon killing people and they're out for a good time._

But then, this _was_ New Orleans, and they didn't say 'let the good times roll' for nothing.

His eyes scanned the sides of the roads, desperately hoping to spot Sammy in his fugly yellow t-shirt.

_Kid never could dress for shit. It's fuckin' highlighter yellow—who the hell wears yellow? Especially when you're—oh hell. Why didn't I figure it out before? _

It was so obvious, Dean could've kicked himself. Sam hadn't just taken off for the hell of it. He had something to prove—he was out hunting the demon.

_What's his angle? Where's he gonna look? He had to have started with Dad's journal—had to. Otherwise, he wouldn't have even had a starting point._

Dean stopped, moving off the sidewalk and into an overhang, pulling his father's journal and a small flashlight out of his backpack.

_C'mon, please have left me something, Sammy—you gotta throw me a freakin' bone here._

Flipping to the latest entries, Dean only had to read for a few minutes before he saw it. There, on the sketched in map of the French Quarter, where all the murder sites had been carefully marked, someone had connected the fucking dots—and the pattern was clear.

_Oh shit. Please let him be wrong._

Dean shoved everything back into his backpack and hauled ass down Bourbon Street, looking for anywhere that would let him in to make a phone call. He had to get a hold of his dad and fast.

_So gotta get me a damn cell-phone—this is fucking ridiculous._

"Dad?"

"D'you find him?"

"No sir, but I think I know where he's headed—I think he figured out the pattern, Dad. It's not the victims themselves that are the key—it's the locations. There's some kind of voodoo place at the center. I think the demon may be working outward from there. It fits."

"And you think he's going there?"

"Yessir."

"Why the hell would he do that?"

"Dad, don't you get it? He's trying to prove something to you, trying to prove he can help."

"Dammit!" John cursed, obviously aware that Dean was right but not too happy about it. "Alright, look, you get back to Jeb's—I'm gonna go get your brother and haul ass back there. If there's voodoo involved in this, too, then we're gonna need more than just the two of us."

_No fucking way am I gonna go back without Sammy._

"I gotta go, Dad—I'll see you soon."

"Dammit, Dean, you go back to Jeb's—"

Dean slammed the phone down onto the hook before his father could finish telling him to get his ass back to Jeb's and instead took off running hell-bent for leather as he frantically tried to remember which damn voodoo place was the right one. He could only hope he reached his brother before their father. Or something far worse.


	3. Risk and Reckless Abandon

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

A/N: Again, if I've screwed up the geography of New Orleans, I apologize. I did the best I could!

Chapter 3: Risk and Reckless Abandon

As Dean slipped through a window of the museum, the red light of the EXIT sign cast an eerie glow over him as he paused a few feet inside. Waiting for his eyes to adjust was absolute torture, but luckily, it only took about ten seconds for the shadowy details of the room to come into focus.

There was no sign of Sam, and Dean had to fight the urge to call out the younger boy's name. He knew better for one thing, and Sam would know better than to respond, for another.

_Or at least he better. _

Nothing gave away a position better than calling out someone's name or responding in kind, and their dad would tear them a new one for that kind of rookie mistake.

Moving down the dark hallway he'd entered into through the window, Dean paused as he reached a door that was cracked open. Adjusting his grip on his Glock, Dean silently nudged the door open with his foot and slowly eased toward the opening. Cautiously angling his body, he peered in only to see a dimly-lit staircase leading down into what Dean imagined could only be a hot, dusty basement.

_Great. A voodoo basement. No, that's not creepy-as-hell at all._

A quick recon of the remaining doors along the hallway revealed mostly supply closets and one door leading to the exhibit area, and while Dean knew his brother had a fondness for museums, he figured it was unlikely that Sam would've headed that way when he had a purpose.

_Sure, the kid's a geek, but he's not gonna play tourist when he's on a mission._

Which left the creepy basement.

_Damn it, Sammy. There better not be fucking rats down there._

With a sigh, Dean returned to the basement door and after a moment decided to skip the flashlight and just feel his way down. He wanted a free hand, for one thing, which he wouldn't have if he was carrying a gun _and_ a flashlight. And putting the gun away wasn't an option. There was also the fact that the flashlight would advertise his presence.

_Sam, remind me to kick your ass later for walking into a voodoo basement with no intel and _then_ making me follow you._

Granted, if Dean was being honest, he'd admit that _he_, not Sam, was usually the one walking into an unknown situation blind. Sam usually over-thought and over-planned _everything_. It worked when Dean didn't plan ahead. When Sam didn't plan ahead, it was just fucking annoying.

Maybe it was because Dean didn't really worry about _himself_. Sammy was still Priority Number One in Dean's book, though—always would be—and going into an unknown situation placed the risk to Sam just a little too high for Dean's peace of mind.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and immediately moved away from the single light at the bottom of the stairs. It was like every other creepy basement Dean had ever been in—a large dark space, piled with boxes and random shit that nobody wanted, and lit by only a single, dingy yellow light bulb. Yep, totally the same…except for the weird voodoo vibe he was getting.

Dean scanned his immediate surroundings, relief suddenly welling up at the unruly mop of brown hair visible over the top of a pile of boxes opposite the stairs. Sam wasn't facing him, instead focusing intently on something either in his hands or on his lap—Dean couldn't tell which—and the fifteen-year-old was, Dean knew, completely oblivious. Dean moved toward him on silent feet, dropping a heavy hand on Sam's shoulder as he suddenly crouched down beside him.

Sam jumped, caught completely unaware, and Dean shook his head ruefully as he allowed Sam to shrug off his hand.

"What the hell, Dean? You scared the shit outta me!"

"_You_ weren't paying attention and it's _my _fault? I'd love to hear you explain that one," he retorted, slipping his pistol carefully into the back of his pants before aiming a smirk at his little brother.

"Shut-up," Sam grumbled angrily, his face flushing with embarrassment.

"What the fuck are you doing here, anyway?" Dean asked him, willing to let the moment go…at least for now. "Dad's pissed, dude."

"The answers are here, Dean—I know it! And I'm gonna prove it to Dad."

"Well you better find the proof fast, because he's on his way."

"What?"

"Did you honestly think he was gonna let you go off alone on your little crusade when there's a demon out here? C'mon, Sammy, you're not that stupid."

"I thought I'd have more time," Sam said plaintively, and Dean wasn't all too sure that Sam wasn't a step away from one of his emo girl moments.

"Yeah, well, you thought wrong, little brother. If you expect to live long enough to see sixteen, you'd better get your ass in gear. We need to get back to Jeb's."

"But, Dean, the demon's coming from _here._"

"Dad said there wasn't a voodoo connection, Sam—it doesn't make any sense. Why would it be coming from here?"

"I'm not real sure about that part yet," Sam muttered, and Dean sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly.

"Let's go, Sam."

"Awww, c'mon, Dean!" Sam complained, his voice rising into that whine that Dean hated with a passion. "We're already here! There's no harm in lookin' around!"

"How about the harm to our asses when Dad gets a hold of us? Did you think about that?" Dean told him snarkily.

"What are _you_ complaining about? _You_ didn't do anything."

"Uh, _yeah_. I did."

"What'd you do?"

"I came chasing after _your _ass when I was supposed to go back to Jeb's and wait like Dad said."

"Well _that_ was a stupid order," Sam pointed out with a thoughtful expression. "Dad should've known you'd disobey that one."

_Yeah, he should've,_ Dean mused, smirking before turning back to the matter at hand.

"C'mon, Dean, please! If you help me, we can get outta here faster."

"Help you do _what_?"

"Find proof that this is where the demon's home-base is," Sam told him earnestly.

"Sammy," Dean began with a sigh, "Look, I get it—I do. I know you want to prove to Dad that you can do this…but coming in here unprepared and shit—it's just not a good idea. Not when we're dealing with a demon. Especially one as crazy fucked up as this one."

"Who says I'm unprepared?" Sam argued, his face settling into that stubborn tilt that Dean recognized as one hundred percent Winchester.

_Shit. He's gonna dig in his heels. Damn._

"Sammy—"

A whisper of sound gave him pause, and Dean turned, his eyes scanning for the source of whatever had gotten his attention.

"What's wrong?" Sam whispered, moving closer as his eyes widened.

"Shh."

Dean slowly rose, pulling Sam to his feet behind him as he continued to search the darkness around them. The fact that he couldn't see anything only made his nerves taut with unease. Something wasn't right.

Another hint of sound, but this time Dean recognized it for what it was: a footstep above them. And it sure as hell wasn't their dad's. Whether it was a rent-a-cop or the demon, Dean couldn't say, but whatever it was wasn't good. Dad was gonna be pissed if they got caught either way.

"Sammy, when I say go, you run for the door, okay?"

"Not without you!" Sam whispered back, shaking his head frantically.

"I'll be right behind you," Dean told him, wishing not for the first time that Sam didn't have an inherent need to question orders. The footsteps were coming down the stairs now, and Dean got the feeling that whoever they belonged to was no longer concerned about being quiet.

Dean reached back with one hand, snagging the fabric of Sam's t-shirt and pulling him close, preparing to move as soon as the coast was clear. The footsteps cleared the stairs, pausing as the owner no doubt began to search for them. They were hidden from view at the moment, sheltered by the pile of boxes between them and the stairs, but as soon as they made a run for it, Dean knew they'd be out in the open like sitting ducks.

_C'mon, asshole, keep moving._

Dean shifted soundlessly, pulling his brother along as he began to edge toward the end of the pile of boxes, maneuvering them so that they'd be in a better position to run when the time came. Dean waited, his fingers tightening in Sam's shirt even as he debated over whether or not to pull his gun. If he did and it turned out to be a cop, then he was totally gonna be busted for carrying an illegal firearm.

_It may be New Orleans, but I'm pretty sure they haven't changed the law to allow nineteen-year-olds to carry concealed. Too bad._

Then again, if whoever walking around was a demon, then the gun might not be a bad idea. Not that the gun would do much more than piss it off, but still…something was better than nothing. He palmed the gun, his ears straining for the sound of the footsteps. Finally, they began to move in the opposite direction, and Dean risked peeking his head around the edge of the boxes.

There was nothing there.

_Dammit, I know I heard the footsteps! Somebody was here, I know it!_

Still, Dean waited, sweat trickling down his face, tension causing his muscles to practically vibrate.

"Dean? There's nothing there—what're we waiting for?" Sam mumbled impatiently after a long couple of minutes.

_Fucking voodoo. 's messin' with my head._

"Okay, let's go. But keep your mouth shut and stay behind me. I gotta bad feelin'."

"Star Wars moment much?"

"Shut-up, Sam—I'm serious."

"Okay, okay," Sam grumbled, obviously only placating him, but at the moment, Dean didn't care so long as his brother did what he'd been told.

"Alright, let's do this."

He shifted his grip from Sam's shirt to his bicep, his fingers tightening for a moment before he began to pull Sam along behind him, moving quickly for the stairs.

"Going somewhere, boys?"

The voice came from somewhere off to their left, dripping with a slow Southern drawl that wasn't nearly as comforting as Jeb's or the twins' accents. As a figure stepped out of the shadows at the other end of the room, Dean jerked Sam forward, putting the younger boy closer to the stairs even as he angled his body so that he was between Sam and the man now moving towards them.

"Don't you two know that New Orleans is dangerous these days?" the man asked casually, and Dean's mind raced as he tried to figure out whether or not he could get Sam out before the man reached them. Something about the dude's demeanor had Dean on edge, though he couldn't place his finger on the exact cause.

"Yeah, well, we could say the same about you," Sam said defiantly, apparently not picking up on the aura of 'obviously not right' coming off the man.

_Don't push this one, Sam—don't bait him. Dude's 'off' somehow._

"Yes, well, I have business to attend to," the man told them with a careless shrug.

"What kind of business?" Sam asked, and Dean's grip tightened in warning.

"Shut-up, Sam," Dean whispered harshly.

"Oh, you know—the usual," he told them with a smile. "Death, destruction, mayhem," he finished, his eyes suddenly filling with an empty black void that had Dean's 'Oh Shit-Meter' flaring.

"Go, Sam!" Dean yelled, shoving Sam towards the stairs as he moved to keep the demon from reaching his little brother.

"Oh, now, don't be like that," the demon exclaimed with a chilling smile, darting forward to grab Dean by the arm. Dean had a moment to think "Oh fuck" before he was airborne, slamming headfirst into a stack of wooden crates that left him dazed, his ears ringing and his head pounding as a sudden warmth began to drip down his forehead.

"Dean!"

The sound of Sam yelling his name was enough to bring him to his senses, and he staggered to his feet, throwing himself back at the demon.

He managed to get his arms around the thing, pinning its arms to its sides, but he knew it wasn't gonna last.

"Sam, I can't hold him forever! GO!"

"'m not leaving without you!" Sam yelled back, sounding for all the world like the scared little boy who'd once depended on Dean for everything. And Dean realized with a sinking feeling that Sam wasn't going to leave.

_Shit._

"Just stay down, then!" he yelled, hoping like hell that Sam actually listened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam drop back behind an as of yet undisturbed stack of crates, and with that, Dean turned his attention fully to somehow trying to handle a demon on his own.

_Knew I should have learned that damn exorcism ritual! Fuck!_

"You're a demon—what the fuck are you doin' in a voodoo museum?" Dean bit out, grunting as the demon wiggled free and elbowed him.

"Ever hear of a red herring, boy? Get the hunters to think these are voodoo killings and they don't even notice the demonic signs."

"Well that's where you fucked up—my dad figured that shit out yesterday. You're not very good at this whole 'badass demon' thing."

"You don't know what you're dealing with," the demon said viciously. "But allow me to show you," it went on, the dark glee in its voice making the hair on Dean's neck suddenly stand. The storm broke outside, a massive roll of thunder shaking the building as the demon obviously began to exert itself.

The demon broke Dean's hold then, hurling him once more across the room where he slammed into one of the support columns hard enough that he was pretty sure he heard something break. Of course, he couldn't be sure, though, since his entire body was throbbing from the impact.

"BOYS!"

The sound of his father's boots thundering down the stairs at breakneck speed had Dean slumping against the column in sheer relief, and he allowed himself a brief moment to enjoy the sensation before he straightened and threw himself back into the fight—at least if the demon's attention was on him, it wasn't on Sam.

Unfortunately, this time wasn't any more effective than the previous encounters, even with his dad helping to distract it, and Dean was pretty damn sure that another run at the demon wasn't gonna go any better. But Winchesters as a rule were stubborn as hell, and expected failure hadn't stopped them yet, so Dean really didn't even have to think before he was dragging himself to his feet once again to help his father.

"Dean, drop!" John yelled, and a lifetime of obeying without question had Dean hitting the floor a split second before his father pulled the trigger of his pistol. It only slowed the demon down, but the slew of holy water that John subsequently threw in its face had it backing up, screaming with rage as it fought to wipe the holy water from its eyes.

Spotting an opportunity, Dean rose to his hands and knees, automatically shifting his weight onto his left to lessen the pain shooting through his right shoulder as he moved in behind the demon. A moment later, the demon backed right into him, tripping over Dean and sprawling on its back.

Dean pounced, and his father was right behind him, the two of them fighting to subdue the demon, though how exactly his father planned to hold the demon was anyone's guess. It would've been a struggle on a good day, but with his arm suddenly not wanting to work right, it made it all the harder to hold the damn demon still.

"Dad! Here, Dad!" Sam yelled excitedly, and Dean looked up to see Sam motioning them toward him.

"We're kinda busy, Sam!" John yelled back, grunting with exertion as the demon fought their hold. A stray hit nailed Dean in the shoulder, sending intense agony through him that had him holding back a yell. Pissed off, Dean balled up his left hand and landed a vicious punch of his own at the demon's face, reveling at the feel of the impact. After getting slammed a few times, it was pretty damn gratifying, to be honest.

"Easy!" his father barked. "There's a person in there!"

_Oh—right. Whoops._

At that moment, the demon broke free, slinging both of them aside, and Dean bit back a cry of pain as he hit the floor, taking the impact on his right side. He vaguely registered his father landing a few feet away as the demon ran towards the stairs.

"No!" Sam cried, darting out from behind the crates, moving in to intercept the fleeing demon.

"Sam, don't!" Dean screamed, flinging himself to his feet, but he knew he wouldn't get there in time. And there was no way in hell Sam was going to stop now. The fifteen-year-old slammed into the demon at full speed, putting every bit of his weight into a tackle that would have done any football coach proud. Caught by surprise, the demon was forced backward for several feet before he regained his footing and knocked Sam loose. Sam cried out as he hit the floor hard, and Dean experienced a moment of heart-stopping fear before the younger boy rolled out of the demon's way.

"Dean!" Sam hollered from the floor, cutting his eyes towards the crates he'd been hiding behind. Dean nodded, even as he moved in, his father a second ahead of him.

"Dad, the crates," Dean bit out, ignoring his pain as he lunged for the demon's knees, wrapping his arms around them and letting his dad take care of knocking the demon off balance from there. The demon clawed at him, landing a few good hits, before John managed to grasp his arms and hold them down. But Dean could see well enough that they weren't going to be able to hang on for long.

"Dad, please!" Sam called out, hovering around them anxiously, wanting to grab hold and help but not seeing an opening. "You gotta trust me!"

John looked over at Sam before glancing back once more at Dean, silently asking Dean what he thought. Dean looked back at him solemnly, and for a moment, nothing else existed except that brief moment of communication, and then Dean nodded. With a silent murmur, John counted to three. And then he let go.

Dean scrambled back as the demon tore away from them, and John moved forward, slamming into the demon's midsection and propelling it back until it smashed into the crates that Sam had desperately been trying to tell them about. As the crates shattered into broken shards of wood, Dean saw why Sam had been willing to stay back for as long as he had.

There, on the floor, as plain as day, was a simple devil's trap. And the demon was inside.

Dean slumped in relief, weariness and pain beating at him as he let himself drop back onto the floor with a heavy sigh. He rolled his head towards his younger brother, who was anxiously standing beside the trap while their father examined it and the demon inside it.

* * *

><p>"You okay, Sammy?"<p>

"My wrist kinda hurts," Sam said, cradling the limb in question against his chest. "But 'm okay. What about you?"

_Everything hurts like a bitch. _

"'m fine."

"I call bullshit," Sam said, eyeballing him critically.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Boys, enough. We've got a situation here that needs to be dealt with."

"Let me go and I won't gut you," the demon snarled. "You think this will hold me?"

"Hey, dumbass," Dean retorted, "maybe you failed to notice, but it already is."

Sam snorted, obviously delighted that his trap was holding, but obviously, their father wasn't nearly as amused. Ignoring Dean's jibe, John turned to face his younger son, a dark scowl on his face.

"Samuel, how did you know how to do this?"

"Well…it was in one of Braden's sketchpads."

"And how did you know it would work?"

"Um…well…I figured Bray wouldn't have drawn it if it didn't work."

"What? He's nine-years-old!" John yelled in disbelief. "How the hell would he know if it worked or not?"

"The same way he knows all of that other weird shit!" Sam retorted, and Dean winced.

_Yeah, that's not gonna go over well._

"Don't you take that tone with me!"

"What are you so mad about? It worked—the demon's stuck!"

_Is it just a little bit fucked up that we've got a family bitch-fest going in front of a demon in a trap? I mean, have they forgotten that the damn thing needs to be exorcised already?_

"You put us all at risk on a chance that a fucking doodle in a nine-year-old's sketchpad would hold back a demon!" John was yelling. "Not only that, but I told you to stay at Jeb's!"

"I bet if it was Dean that did it, you wouldn't be mad!"

"Dean's in enough fucking trouble of his own—he doesn't need to borrow any. This one's on you, Samuel! You knew what my orders were, and you disobeyed. You could've gotten yourself killed!"

"Well, I didn't! So what are you so mad about?"

_Damn, little brother's got balls of steel,_ Dean thought, watching his brother look their father square in the eye, bristling with righteous indignation. _Not too bright, but still, you gotta admire that kinda nerve. _

"Dean, take your brother and get back to Jeb's," John said tightly, turning his back on Sam to look at Dean. "When you get there, stay put. And you make damn sure your brother does, too, understand?"

"Yessir," Dean murmured, painstakingly climbing to his feet, wincing at the pain that shot through him.

_I better not have dislocated this fucking shoulder again. Shit._

"But, Dad, I wanna stay here and watch you exorcise it! It's my trap that caught it—I deserve to stay and see what happens," Sam protested.

"Right now, I don't give a rat's ass what you think you deserve—you're going with your brother, and I'm not gonna fucking argue it with you," John told him in that biting tone that told both boys well enough that their dad wasn't screwing around anymore.

With an angry sigh, Sam pounded up the stairs, not waiting for Dean as he stormed off.

_Thanks for that, Dad. Now I gotta deal with his emo bitching all the way back to Jeb's_, Dean thought, following his brother slowly up the stairs as his father turned back to the demon, no doubt preparing to grill it for information before he sent it back to hell.

* * *

><p>Of course it was raining when they emerged back onto the street, and Dean sighed, already anticipating the annoyance of an eight block trip back to Jeb's in the pouring rain. Beside him, Sam hunched his shoulders and put his head down, ignoring Dean as he started to go west.<p>

"Other way, Sam."

"What? Why?"

"That way will put us on Bourbon Street—too many people are out on Bourbon Street."

"So?" Sam said contentiously, and Dean had to fight the urge to smack his smartass of a brother in the back of the head.

"Dude, I'm beat to hell—yeah, it's Bourbon Street, but people will still notice the blood I've got all over me," he said, gesturing irritably at the gash on his forehead that had contributed to the blood all over his shirt. "We can't afford that kind of attention, Sam. So go the other way and keep going until we hit Decatur. All that shit's closed, so there won't be that many people out. We can head north from there."

"But that'll take us twice as long!" Sam argued, obviously in one of _those_ moods.

"I'm not Dad, Sam, and I'm not gonna fuckin' argue with you. Do what I tell you—you can bitch at me later."

Not waiting for Sam to do what he was told, Dean took the lead, sticking to the shadows as he headed east toward Decatur Street. Reaching up, he gingerly probed at his shoulder, trying to tell if the stupid thing was dislocated.

_Doesn't feel like it's dislocated, but damn if it doesn't hurt like a sonovabitch. Must be something else…_

Sam let out an angry huff, breaking into Dean's train of thought, and Dean let his hand drop from his shoulder as he turned to look at his little brother, who was looking less angry and more miserable with every step.

_He's gonna make me say something._ _Damn. _

One block, five storefronts, and two painfully silent minutes later, Dean couldn't let it go any longer.

"Sorry Dad wouldn't let you stay," Dean said quietly.

"Yeah, well, it's not like it's anything new," Sam grumbled, jostling him slightly as he hopped over a gaping crack in the sidewalk.

"Ow! Shit, Sammy!" Dean barked as pain shot through him at the inadvertent jarring.

"What?"

"I think I broke my damn collarbone. 's the only reason I can think of for why my arm's numb and my shoulder fuckin' hurts."

"You sure you didn't dislocate your shoulder again?"

"Pretty sure. Doesn't feel outta place like it did when I dislocated it."

"Oh." He fell silent for a bit, and Dean was feeling pretty grateful that his normally chatty younger brother wasn't going to pursue conversation any further. Of course, then Sam had to go and ruin it. "You know, you've got pretty shitty luck, Dean."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Just means you get hurt a lot. You should be more careful," Sam said with a rueful shake of his head.

"Sure, Sam—thanks for the advice," Dean told him snarkily. "Next time I go up against a demon to save your ass, I'll be sure to tell it to throw me real gentle-like at the wall."

"Well, you don't have to be a smartass," Sam retorted. "I'm just sayin' that you—"

"Stow it, Sam—not in the mood."

"Now you're acting like Dad," Sam muttered. "Nobody's ever in the mood to talk when I wanna—"

"Because you don't wanna _talk_, Sam—you wanna lecture and bitch at everybody. That shit gets old, real fast, and nobody in this family has the patience for it, Dad especially."

"Dad doesn't have the patience for _anything_," Sam said hotly, crossing his arms over his chest angrily. "He's mad at me, even though I freakin' helped! He's a jerk!"

_I must have seriously pissed somebody off to deserve this. Such a freakin' girl, and I'm the one who ends up having to fuckin'…emote. _

"He's not _really_ mad at you, Sammy—you know that, right?"

Sam didn't answer, and Dean reached out and snagged Sam's shoulder, pulling him to a stop so that they were face-to-face.

"He gets pissy when he's scared, Sam—sort of like _you_ do."

"Shut-up!"

"Well quit being a little bitch about it," Dean retorted.

"I'm not being a bitch!"

"Yeah, you are. You're too fucking sensitive, dude."

"Well, if Dad would just trust me—"

"It's not about trust, Sam," Dean said, shaking his head.

"Sure it is! He never lets me help—and even though my trap worked, he still sent me home like a little kid, like I'm not old enough to see anything!"

"Hey, he didn't let me stay either, but you don't see me bitching and moaning about it, do you?"

"He only sent you away because he needed somebody to 'babysit' me on the way home."

"It's different with you, Sammy," Dean told him with a sigh, staring down into his little brother's doleful brown eyes.

"How?"

"Because you're the last thing Dad has of Mom," Dean murmured. "You're the last thing she ever gave him. He's scared he'll lose you."

"He can't keep me safe forever, Dean," Sam said, shaking his head in frustration, his shaggy hair flopping over his forehead.

"Maybe not," Dean mumbled, a sudden ache in his chest at the thought of anything ever happening to his brother. "But he's for damn sure gonna try."

_And so am I. It's all I've got. _

"I'd have sent you back, too, Sammy," Dean said quietly after a moment's silence.

"What?" Sam barked, sounding for all the world like he'd been betrayed.

"You're my little brother—it's my job to keep you safe. You're everything, Sammy. I mean, yeah, we've got Aubrey and Braden now, but…you're…" He trailed off, suddenly embarrassed by the total Hallmark-y-ness of the moment and not exactly sure what to say anyway.

"I'm what, Dean?" Sam asked softly, staring up at Dean with a gaze that Dean suddenly found all to penetrating.

"You're all I got left of Mom, too. I can't lose you, Sammy. I _can't_," he said emphatically.

"You're not gonna lose me, Dean—I promise."

But as they turned and started walking toward Jeb's again, Dean couldn't help but wonder.


End file.
